The Things You Remember
by triquetral
Summary: One-shot. "Staying home from pre-school sucked." Young sick Dean stays home with Mary, set approx. two weeks before The Fire. More on the comfort side of hurt/comfort.


Staying home from pre-school (if Dean would have the phrasing down this young) sucked. He didn't like it one bit. He loved Mommy and Daddy and little Sammy. But fingerpainting was exciting! Giggling while weird kids were eating Playdoh was hysterical (although he told Sammy in secret that he licked the Playdoh to find out what all the fuss was about, but who was a baby gonna tell?). Playing music while Miss Thibeault played the guitar was awesome! Once she even let Dean strum it while she worked its long pearly neck. The sound was so pretty. And Halloween was only two weeks away, so they were gonna make ghosts out of tissues!

He started sniffling and coughing yesterday and felt all hot and icky. Mommy kept stopping him when he was running around and feeling his head, frowning. Before he went to bed, Daddy made him drink some gross stuff. He didn't want to, and when Daddy had tried to show him that it would be easy by drinking it himself, even _he_ made faces. Goes to show, though, parents don't know everything. He drank the gross medicine and he still felt icky today.

He still wanted to go to school though. So he pouted and cried and cajoled, as any sick four year old is wont to do.

And Mommy said, "A little help here, John."

And Daddy flashed a smile and said, "Sorry, I'm gonna be late for work," dashing out the door after giving Dean a smooch on the head. He seemed to know better than to try and kiss his mother.

So Mommy harrumphed and picked Dean up, cradling him as he let the waterworks flow. Eventually he settled down, nestling his head in the crook of her neck and inhaling the clean scent of her hair, letting out the odd sniffle now and then.

"You're really miserable, huh, sweetie?" Mommy asked sympathetically.

"Uh-huh." Dean agreed, clinging even more fiercely to her neck.

"Was there a reason you wanted to go so bad today?" she grunted, hefting Dean upward and shifting her weight to get a better hold on him.

"We were gonna make ghosts outta tissues." A few tears started falling again at the reminder of what he was missing out on. He didn't miss his mother tensing up beneath him either, and that just served to make him even more sad. He buried his head into her gossamer blonde hair, his cough interspersed with a woeful wail.

"Ghosts, huh?" she asked softly.

"Yeah, Momma. And now the whole class is gonna getta do it and I won't be there!" Dean pouted.

"This is really important to you?" she asked again. The sound of Sammy crying in his room echoed down the stairs.

"It is _super_-important." Dean emphasized.

His mother walked over to the overstuffed couch and set him down on its threadbare cushions with care, unhooking his hands gently from her neck.

"Tell you what, baby. If you rest here until lunch, we will make the biggest ghost your class has ever seen!"

Dean's face lit up with joy! "Really-_really_?!"

His mother leaned in close, resting her forehead against his. "Yes, my love, really-_really_."

"Can I watch Sesame Street?" he asked plaintively, as if the tears might start any moment again. Mommy saw right through him and began tickling him fiercely until he began coughing again. She rubbed his back in slow, comforting circles until he stopped.

"I gotta go feed your brother. Yes, you can watch Sesame Street, but only if you promise not to show Sammy how you got your way, Mr. Puppy-Dog Eyes. Or the world will never survive two Winchester boys." She winked, smiling brilliantly at him and he gazed back adoringly. He'd promise anything to see that smile, so he nodded his head obediently, giggling when she picked him up and rested him sideways on the couch, laying a heavy olive afghan over him.

Dean was watching Bert and Ernie being silly one minute and asleep the next. He awoke to feel his mother's cool hand on his cheek, and fluttered his eyes open to see her standing over him. She wore a small worried smile on her face, as she held baby Sam on her hip.

"Ready for lunch?" she asked with an outstretched hand. Dean sat up and yawned before taking hold of his mother, clasping her fingers tightly. She led him over to the bright noon-lit kitchen, where he climbed onto his customary seat in front of a bowl brimming with steaming red soup: Grandma's soup. The grandmother he had never met and was rarely brought up except for things like quilts and Christmas ornaments and certain recipes.

His mother looked up from setting Sammy down in his highchair to find Dean looking troubled as he stared down at his bowl.

"What's wrong, honey? Not hungry?" she asked as she scattered a handful of Cheerios in front of his little brother.

"We-l-l-l-l," Dean began, hesitantly, "Ricky at school says that rice is really little worms." There had been a lot of _conversations_ about things Ricky had said since Dean had begun pre-school in September. One of those conversations had ended with Daddy saying, "This Ricky kid sounds like a little punk." Then there was another conversation about how that wasn't a nice thing to say. Dean kinda hated _conversations_.

"Well," his mother said, "Maybe _Ricky's_ mommy gives _him_ worms in _his_ soup, but do you think _your_ mommy would?" Her voice sounded appraising, nearly stern, but Dean saw the twinkle in her eyes that told him she wasn't serious.

He giggled. No, of course his mother would never would worms in his soup. He blushed, feeling silly for even having such a thought. "No, Momma, you wouldn't."

"Then dig in. And remember to blow on the spoon."

While he was eating his soup (and he always forgot how good it was and how much he loved it), his mother was rushing busily around the room collecting items from their various cupboards. Grown-up scissors, yarn, the black laundry marker that smelled funny, and an old linen tablecloth.

When he had finally drained the bowl, leaving only a few grains of swollen white rice along its edges, he gazed expectantly at his mother.

"Ready to make a big scary ghost, Dean-Dean-Jellybean?" she asked.

"Not scary, Momma, _friendly_…like Casper," he corrected with the sassy tone in his voice that children get when they feel adults are being obtuse.

Dean couldn't explain it, but he felt something in his mother relax. She knelt on the floor in front of him and hugged him close. "Friendly, just like Casper."

They made a huge ghost, head stuffed full of cottonballs that smelled of baby powder. His mother drew two cartoonish eyes on its face and a wide gap-toothed grin. When his mother tied the yarn to separate the head from the body she gave Dean the "very important job" of holding his finger in just the right place so she could knot it in a bow.

Dean lay down on the couch again afterward. When he woke up he had his head in his Daddy's lap, the nearby smell of newspaper print mingling in with the lingering odor of axle grease. He saw his mother sitting across the way on the recliner, giving Sammy his bottle.

His father felt him squirming. "Awake, squirt?"

"Daddy, did you see my ghost?" Dean peered up at his father, eager for his opinion on this afternoon's craft session.

His father put his newspaper down and leaned in close, as if to tell a secret. "I did. I think you just might have made the biggest, bestest ghost in the whole world."

Dean found himself hoisted up by the armpits until he was seated on his father's lap, wrapped him up in strong arms. Daddy pulled him away from the hug, putting a hand to his forehead like Mommy had done.

"Y'know, kiddo, you might have to stay home from school tomorrow." Daddy said carefully, clearly expecting the antics of the early morning.

Dean simply sighed with the air of someone who was being very put out but who really didn't mind at all. After all, he had fun at home today. "Can Momma make more soup?"

His mother replied with a loving smile. "There's plenty leftover."


End file.
